


I come back to haunt you, memories will taunt you

by BlissBasket



Series: No more destination,  no more pain [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Feels, First Meetings, Fix-It, Flashbacks, I promise it's a fix-it, Just wait for the second part, M/M, Past Drug Use, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlissBasket/pseuds/BlissBasket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint suspected he always had some kind of death wish. </p><p>It all began when he accepted the white powder. No. Fuck that. It started when the very man who was supposed to take care of him fucked up his childhood ."</p><p> This is the story of what would have happened if Coulson had brought Clint in when he was a drug addict. And how Clint felt he had been saved by Phil. But then Phil died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I prefer to warn you immediately, in this story, Phil is dead (and it's not a spoiler, we know this from the beginning).  
> But it's just the first part of this Clint&Phil story and I like my stories with happy endings. So don't worry, I'm writing a second part where Coulson lives .
> 
> Thank you to Ownedbyacat for beta-reading this story (and sending me all these comments in red ;) ).  
> As usual, all the mistakes are mine (especially the chapter 5, since I rewrote a lot of it after it had been beta-read.)

Clint suspected he always had some kind of death wish.

 

It all began when he accepted the white powder. No. Fuck that. It started when the very man who was supposed to take care of him fucked up his childhood .

 

Now, looking at the ceiling and listening to Tasha breathing in the dark, he realized this death wish only dulled with time but never disappeared. Exactly like the throbbing pain he was feeling in his chest. That's what agony must feel like.

 

He knew that Tasha would react if she felt him moving, leaving. He wasn't sure if she was trying to rest or let him have some private time to mourn, her presence letting him know she was here to hold him if he needed it. It had been a hell of a day for everyone. The only other time Clint had felt so much pain was when his mother- _No, Barton, don't go_ _t_ _here!_

 

He hunched in the bed, his arms tightly circling his knees. If he thought too much about what he had done and what the consequences had been, he would want to disappear. He couldn't stop thinking about the other agents, women and men who trusted him, who had worked with him and who had died because of him. The irony of these SHIELD agents dying on a mission where he was the villain was like taking a rusted knife in the throat every time. _  
_Thinking about the other agent whose death he could be as well responsible for, the only man who had always given Clint second chances, trust and respect, Clint felt pure agony in his heart, scathing hot tears threatening to drown him again. __  
  
The night was one long big dark hour, seemingly without end. Not that Clint wanted the morning to arrive but the night highlighted his failures and the thoughts he know will never stop were swirling in his head. He could try to keep them aside during the day but they were sure to come back at night like a scary puppet erupting from a colorful box.

 

Natasha even suggested that he took some sleeping pills but he didn't want to feel this again, to not be able to wake up, to be vulnerable when the blue light, the cold, the voice, came back in the dreams, the smoke in his nose, the explosions around him, the voice of Coulson....there were some details even Natasha didn't know about Clint, pills and Coulson.

 

She was mourning too, but he couldn't bring himself to stop being selfish right now, to care about her pain. He wanted his own pain to smother the world, to erase all the lights and to make everyone else suffer like he was suffering.

 

Still, he knew that, if he tried to do something stupid tonight, Tasha wouldn't hold her punches. She never did. He wasn't sure what she expected him to do. Lying beside her, he tried to remember a time where his death wish was stronger, a time where he didn't care. 

 

It was before Phil.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The first time Clint met Coulson, he wanted to die.

 

He had just lost another one of the jobs he took to pay for the coke and sometimes food. He was getting tired to sell his talents, first as a hired assassin then an enforcer for local drug barons and the one he just quit was the last straw for Clint's pride. Bouncer for a shabby club trying to increase its business by selling cocaine to ignorant children. When Clint realized that, he decided to quit. The owner died in his office a few days later, with three bullets in the head. The police concluded it was a sniper hired by another drug dealer. A cheap one to use so many bullets.

 

Not that Clint had high moral standards, but you didn't mess with children, not on his watch. He was one of the best killers, the best marksman on earth. He didn't need to kill children to boost his reputation. Fuck it. He wasn't supposed to need work as a bouncer either, but he was fucked the day he had started to touch cocaine again. He had forgotten the feeling of freedom it offered, like you hadn't a care left in the world. No worries, no blood, only the high to make you feel good, to make this life bearable.

 

And yet, he had sworn to never take drugs again. Not after his brother left him almost dying on the side of this muddy road, right after he refused to leave the circus with him. They had found a place there, almost like being part of a family. And Barney had to ruin everything.

 

And now, more than fifteen years later, Clint was back to the coke, back to his death wish. 

In the rain, in the middle of the night. 

_Seriously Barton, how much more pathetic could you be?_

 

The truth was, he hated himself. Much more than usual. But he hadn't realized how sick he looked until he saw his own reflection in the subway. He was feeling great, okay maybe a little shaky and his coordination wasn't what you'll call fluid. But fuck. These people didn't know how to do backflips. They couldn't judge him because he almost fell when trying to settle in his seat. Or when they all stepped backwards because of his bloodshot eyes. He didn't like what he saw either. He had lost a lot of weight,along with some muscles and now his skin was looking greyish, and his pupils seem too big for his eyes. On his worst days, he could barely lift up his bow, even less aim straight. He hadn't even touch a new bow in three months.

 

_Time to slow down, Barton. Time to stop your shit._

 

He ran to get out of the confined wagon. He tried to run but his body needed a fix badly. And he hated himself for it. He just had time to dive into a street and throw up in the gutter. 

 

Now he was leaning against a wall, partially hidden by a big dumpster, his skin damp with sweat.

He couldn't stop his hands from shaking with need and hid them under his thighs, out of sight. 

 

_What you don't see doesn't exist Clint, right? Always your policy, buddy._

 

“It almost worked” he muttered to himself.

 

He didn't need to see his body, hidden in the shadows, to know there was no will left in him to keep going.

 

That's when he heard the footsteps. He should have heard the brakes of the car, spotted the men before they entered the street but he was so busy drowning in self-loathing, he had been negligent. He tried to stand up silently but he slippedon some stinky substance on the ground that was soaking the hems of his pants as well. 

 

_G_ _reat._

 

The movement had apparently alarmed a trigger-happy guy because a bullet went crashing into the dumpster near him, freezing him. No way he was gonna die like this. With all the shit he went through, this was the only decision which truly belonged to him.

 

_Funny, Barton, how you are getting offended about losing something you were thinking to throw away anyway._

Sometime the voices in his head were getting really annoying.

 

He looked around him, realizing quickly that the only escape possible meant crawling through the garbage _into_ the dumpster then jumping out of it and running toward the end of the street. All of this while dodging bullets and experiencing the first effects of withdrawal.

 

_Fucking great._

 

He clenched his teeth, and climbedthe sidewall of the dumpster, his hands gripping the edges so hard , he was sure his knuckles were white. He ended up in a pile of sticky trash bags with, of course, unidentifiedpieces of garbage floating on top. His hand was squeezing something that had surely been alive at one point. No time to whine though, the excited guy with the gun and his friends were almost touching the dumpster , probably thinking he wasn't a threat, because he wasn't hearing gunfire anymore.

 

Clint jumped on the other side of the dumpster, landing in apuddle of water. 

Nevermind. His vision was getting blurry and black around the edge, and he didn't put up much resistance when two of the men caught him under the armpits and held him up without effort.

 

Another man, older and dressed in a grey suit, got closer and motioned the two men to let him go. 

Clint was fighting to find his balance while the man stared at him in silence. 

 

“All this action only to stare at me? There are a lot of pretty butts around there you know.” Clint tried to look bored but he was actually digging his nails into his palms to stay still.

 

“I am Agent Coulson, from Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division and I'm here to talk to you about your former identity, Hawkeye.”The man showed him a badge. S.H.I.E.L.D. Yes, Clint had already heard about them, a secret governmental agency, the kind of guys who were cleaning mistakes in secret, and by mistakes he meant the bad guys. But when you knew the right people, nothing was really a big secret.

 

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing what he hoped looked like a smirk “I have no idea what you're talking about .”

 

“I don't think we have time for this Mr Barton, it's been seven hours since your last fix and you are presenting the first effects of withdrawal. To make things short, we have files on you since you proclaimed yourself best marksman on earth in a circus show.” Clint felt himself blushing. He was actually proud of his time in the circus. “I didn't proclaim myself anything. The public loved me” he added with a half grin.

“-Then it became your surname as a hired assassin.” Coulson carried on, undisturbed by the interruption “-After that it became easier to catch you and, apparently you intended to waste your talents and destroy yourself .“ Clint couldn't stop the little chuckle escaping his lips, it sounded more bitter than cheerful.

 

“I'm here to offer you a job, Mr Barton.”

 

Clint would have laughed if he hadn't had the feeling it would end up in another episode of him on his knees blowing chunks on the sidewalk. Not his favorite activity on his knees.

 

“Are you serious? I mean, did you take a close look at me ?” Clint motioned at himself.

 

But Coulson remained expressionless. “As I said Mr Barton, we have followed your .. achievements for a while and we want you as one of our agents. We will take care of your current medical issues before you pass the tests of course.”

 

A part of Clint's mind noted the irony in Coulson's toneat the word “achievements”, he probably had a sarcastic answer somewhere but he was too busy ignoring the exhaustion and the sweat covering his body despite the chilly night, and tried to focus on the last words.

 

“A job offer? You want to send me into rehab?!”

 

“Yes, a job offer, as soon as you are able to lift up a sniper rifle without shaking and needing three bullets to hit a target .”

 

Alright, the man was a cold bastard. A really well informed one. At least, he didn't hear pity or disgust in his voice. He could work with someone like him, someone cold and distant, but without hint of judgment in his expression, someone who didn't seem to care.

 

“Basically, you are giving me a way to kill myself in your S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, in order “to save humanity”? “

 

He tried to infuse sarcasm but it sounded weak to his ears. Maybe because of the rush of blood making him light-headed. Or maybe because he had been thinking about death not even half an hour ago. Didn't matter, if he could have his pride back, a real goal for his talents, not something noble, no, but a reason to wake up, to get out of bed, to feel the weight of his bow in his hands, the wind in his ears when he was on top of a building, any reason to tell him that life mattered.

 

“Our lab is already working on a new bow” Coulson told him, his lips twisting slightly.

Okay, maybe not a completely cold bastard.

 

 

 

Clint followed the three men back in a black SUV, trying to ignore the burning acidity throwing a party in his stomach. He quickly realized that Trigger-Happy was the kind of guy who became quickly annoyed by little quirks so he spent the short ride singing _Highway to Hell_ and _Wherever I may roam_ while the guy ground his teeth. Coulson appeared imperturbable, even if Clint could swear he saw a little smile appear for a few seconds when Clint sang lasciviously _“I have stripped of all but pride”_ in direction of Trigger-Happy. 

 

It was the only way to keep his attention focused because right now, the only thing Clint wanted was to scratch himself raw, to imagine the blood under his nails and the mix of pleasure and pain the scratching would bring him.

 

When the car dropped Coulson and Clint in front of a house in the suburbs, Clint was relieved. It was getting hard to hide his impatient movements from the scrutiny of Agent Coulson's gaze. He didn't try to hide his expression of surprise when he looked at the small building . He had expected a medical facility, not a safe house.

 

“We agreed it was for the best if your condition remained unknown to the other agents and the drugs won't take long to get out of your system.”

 

“Who is “we”?” Clint was trying not to show the panic he felt for a few seconds at the idea of being alone and completely vulnerable with the agent.

 

“Director Fury and myself. This part of your file will stay top secret.”

 

Clint nodded at the cool professionalism of Agent Coulson. He guessed he had to believe the guy, considering this like a test. 

Besides, the lack of drugs in his system was starting to make him more and more dizzy and itchy, not compelling to stay focused on the conversation.

 

_A bet on your life by putting it in the hands of a stranger? Always the clever moves, Clint._

 

Clint had not the time to tell himself to shut up because suddenly, he was running through the small house, frantically searching for the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind him and doubled over the toilet, desperately trying to empty himself but nothing came, except burning saliva. He had barely eaten anything for the last two days, increasing his intake of coke and too busy floating on the high it provided him to think about food.

 

The porcelain was cold when he rested his forehead against it, his hands gripping the top in a weak attempt to stop the room from spinning while the temperature of his body was quickly rising. He had the vision of his skin bursting open, his blood springing everywhere, letting him finally be free. He wanted to skin himself, instead he threw his tee-shirt to the side and gripped at his fly, breaking it in the hurry to take off his jeans.

 

He let his hands hovering over his body, his nails scratching soft skin, ripping it, tearing it apart in the hope to find relief in the mechanical movement, the distracting pain.

 

Suddenly he remembered the knife in his back pocket. The knife could bring him oblivion. He crawled on the white floor, indifferent to the bloody marks and reached for his jeans, shaking them, desperate to feel the blade.

 

A part of his mind was detached, acting like this was a show he was watching from afar, admiring the blood spreading in thin rivulets along his arms, his legs, his chest, the dark red a vivid contrast against his pale skin, pooling in his belly button before staining the waistband of his briefs.

 

The rest of his body was fighting against the pain submerging him, threatening to make him insane. He attempted to prevent any scream by crushing his teeth against his lips, biting until he felt blood dripping on his chin. A flash of awareness made him violently toss the knife aside, repelled by himself, by his capitulation. He was stronger than this, he was the best.... before, he was the best marksman on Earth.

 

He hit the tile, curling in a tight ball, his hands clasping his knees, rocking on himself, whispering for the pain to stop, for someone to help him, to give him the drugs back, to kill him, to not let him touch drugs, just someone to make it stop.

 

_Please make it stop. Please,please, please. Please just make it stop. Pleasemakeitstop._

 

The blood from his bitten lips was mixing with the tears on his face. His throat was raw and painful. Maybe he had screamed after all. The pain was making everything blazing white in his mind.

 

He barely noticed the sound of the door's lock being forced, light footsteps stopping in front of him, a body he could hardly make out between the black and white dots flashing in his vision, crouching next to him and strong hands helping him. He felt a wet wash cloth on his face, cleaning his neck then his upper body with lukewarm water. 

 

He stumbled upright but strong arms supported him, encircling his waist and gripping his shoulder gently but firmly until he was brought into a dark room. He tried to continue the furious scratching but this time, his wrists were firmly held in a steel grip while he lay down. He heard a whimpering sound when his naked skin rubbed at the cold surface under him, realizing he was the one making these pitiful moans.

 

A strong, callused hand pushed sweating locks of hair from his face, “It's going to be okay, Barton. You're going to be alright”. 

 

Coulson. 

 

Coulson was with him, Coulson was helping him. 

 

Clint felt a fresh swab against the inside of his elbow and the sting of steel, felt the panic rising at the sensation of the needle penetrating his skin and heard himself mumble “no, no...no needle” then his eyes closed, too heavy to stay open and his mind wandered into oblivion while he vaguely heard Coulson's apologetic words.

 

He woke up for short periods of time. 

 

At first, his moments of lucidity were a repetition of nightmares. Memories of his past he had buried years ago all came back in a painful succession. 

 

Lying in bed at five and covering his head with a pillow to muffle the screams and the strong smell of whiskey. 

 

Running at eight with Barney, his hand gripping his brother's in the dark, his hood covering his ears and eyes to erase the horrors of the night. 

 

Leaving the orphanage at thirteen, holding his breath at the creaking sound of the old wooden window opening, the wide eyes of Barney terrified of the jump, while Clint restrained his laugh with difficulty at the idea of freedom and adventures, the wind playing with his hair during the too brief descent. 

 

Holding his first bow in the circus, his first possession, at fifteen and the pride filling him when the crowd acclaimed his act. 

 

Blazing arrows at sixteen on a moving target while he was doing back flips on a fifteen meter pole, laughing at his freedom, happy in a new family. 

 

Sniffing cocaine with his brother and other men from the circus, contemplating his hopes slowly getting out of his reach at seventeen. His legs broken. His brother nearly doing an overdose, both of them forced to leave the circus. His family...lost.

 

The burn of the arrow against his arm. Blood. Screams and fear. Robbing a bank at twenty-one and realizing that the guard laying in front of him with an arrow in the chest was his brother. Staring into those blue eyes on a hospital bed. The guilt overwhelming him.

 

Then a succession of jobs as hired assassin. He was the best sniper after all, no one could see better from a distance than him. So many people killed, their faces blending together. At first, he only hunted actively wanted targets; heads of drug cartels, men behind child prostitution rings, weapons smugglers for countries at war, corrupted politicians.Then the drugs returned to Clint's life and everything got mingled together.

 

Every few hours he woke up screaming. The first times the nightmares happened, his body automatically tried to take a defensive posture , crouching, his hand searching for his arrow, a gun or a knife. But the pain made his muscles scream and he was barely able to raise his head, much less a hand. The only thing calming him was Coulson's voice, quietly requesting “Look at me. Barton, talk to me. ”

 

He couldn't talk.

 

The memories were too raw, too painful, his throat was too tight, he could feel a metallic taste in his mouth, the saliva pooling under his tongue, making it hard to swallow.

 

Coulson had managed to feed him with broth during his moments of wakefulness. The first time Clint jerked from his nightmares, he threw up on Coulson. Every time after that, Coulson held his head over a bucket.

 

 

When he finally woke up, his throat felt raw and the light was hurting his eyes. 

 

Scratch that. Actually he was hurting everywhere. He hated waking up disoriented, the past days only a blur of pain, screams and a past he wanted to bury.

 

“Water?” 

 

He nodded, his tongue felt like it has taken all the space in his mouth, a disgusting taste ever present in the back of his throat.

His skin still felt hyper sensitive. When he gazed down at his body, he saw bandages on each of his fingers and on his legs and arms. He could also feel threads pulling on his skin when he tried to sit up.

 

“I had to stitch you up, a few ones you can add to your collection.” Clint nodded again, not having the will to search for a snarky come-back. Mostly he was grateful. He was used to take care of this wounds alone and pass out from blood loss or exhaustion afterwards.

 

His eyes travelled around the room, noticing stacks of paper on the desk.

 

“How...how many days?” he grimaced at the roughness of his voice, looking at Coulson for the first time.

 

“ Three days of withdrawals and two days of bad dreams and, hum, sickness”. His hesitation made Clint smile, a tiny stretch of the lips, much more that the expressions that had crossed his face the past months. 

 

“I have never met a nurse like you before.”

 

“Don't gloat Barton. Next week, you're back in training.” Coulson was deadpanned but his eyes were smiling. The man looked tired, bloodshot eyes, sleeves rolled up and tie discarded. 

He took a deep breath. He felt, maybe not good, but alive.

 

“And...Coulson?”

 

The man was already back at his desk, his attention focused on a bunch of files.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you for..for being there.”

 

“You are my agent now, Barton.” It sounded like the most obvious thing for Coulson, like being his agent meant being taken care of. Maybe for Coulson, it was something as normal as breathing.

Maybe Clint could work with this man. He was already trusting him after all.

 

They never talked about these five days again.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Beside him, Natasha was tossing in her sleep. Clint was surprised she could rest at all. But Natasha was more of a soldier than Clint would ever be. She never knew how the next day was going to be , so as soon as she had a moment to sleep, she immediately took the opportunity. Not that she wouldn't wake up if there were any sound or any other people in the room, but with all the missions they had done together, she had become used to sleeping next to Clint. The only other person she trusted enough to fall asleep in the same room was Phil.

 

Of course, it took time for all of them to get used to each other like that.

 

After Coulson brought Clint in and Clint was cleared by the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrist, on the condition that he won't miss his future appointments, the life in the compound went pretty smoothly.

 

He became specialist quickly, going on missions with Coulson as his handler most of the time. S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him a room in the barracks, like all the other agents, making trips easier when they came back in the middle of the night from a mission, minimizing the questions from the neighbors. But as soon as Clint had enough money, he rented a tiny flat, with a room even smaller that what he had at S.H.I.E.L.D. , having for the first time of his life a place of his own.

 

Two years after signing his contract, Clint was starting to know everyone in the agency, even making friends but the only one he truly respected and let watch his back without a second thought was Coulson. And sometimes, Clint allowed himself to think that Coulson placed some confidence in him as well. Until the day Clint messed up and almost shattered the relationship they had built.

 

 

It was supposed to be a really easy mission. But like all things supposed to be easy, it went out of control and exploded in Clint's face.

 

Clint was freezing his ass off on a roof. Again. But it was part of the job. And he had the added satisfaction to try making Coulson talk when they were on a mission together. More like getting a wry comment but it was progress from the concise “Barton, we are supposed to work” he was used to obtaining at the beginning of their partnership.

 

“Why can't we have targets living in sunny, warm places? C'mon boss. You think you could arrange that?”

 

“You will scream at the size of the spiders, Barton.”

 

Clint smiled at the dry amusement he could hear in the voice of Coulson.

 

“Too big never makes me scream, sir.”

 

“Are you really sure about that?”

 

Clint shook his head, grinning to himself 

 

“Your innuendo is terrible,sir” but before he could get an answer, Coulson's professional tone echoed in his ear.

 

“Target in sight, Barton.” 

 

Clint adjusted his sniper's rifle, eyes on the target when suddenly his eyes narrowed. 

 

Graceful gait. 

 

An indefinable aura of danger in the way she moved. 

 

Subtle glances noting the positions of everyone around her.

 

The only thing that didn't match was the red hair. During the few days Clint met her she was blonde. From all the targets, it couldn't be her.

 

“Barton, Talk to me.”

 

Clint couldn't concentrate. 

 

_Fuck Barton, for once you could have pa_ _id_ _attention during the meeting._

 

Clint didn't want to admit the truth to himself but lately he had been more fascinated by watching Coulson than listening to the briefings. He always skimmed the reports quickly and this time he had only glanced distractedly at the target's pic, a blurry shot of a red haired woman.

 

“Barton, take the shot. Now!”

 

Clint didn't even think to try talking to Coulson. Despite his years with SHIELD, he had never been that good at following orders. Self-reliance lay at Clint's core and even if it was not as obvious as before, at times , it reappeared. Times like now, when the woman he saw through his scope wasn't a target anymore but someone he knew. 

 

He discarded the ear piece, jumped toward the fire escape and ran, his memories of Albany flashing through his mind while his footsteps echoed on the steel staircase. 

 

Albany in January, the feeling of hunger covered by the high of the pills, then the lack of drugs, the control over him with those damn pills and the cold. The cold was one of the things he remembered the most. Jeez, he hated the cold. Clint had been deep into drugs at the time, it was one of the worst periods of his life. Working for an organization where everyone popped pills for breakfast hadn't helped. At the time she called herself Natalia, a woman wealthy enough to have direct contacts with the boss. He died a few weeks after. No one had known the exact details but Natalia had disappeared with all their current stock of drugs. It was one of the worst withdrawals Clint had lived through.

 

Curiously, Clint couldn't bring himself to hate her. True, he had cursed her name a thousand times and wished to make her die slowly with a barbered arrow while he was searching frenetically for a forgotten bag but the memory of their only conversation was still burning in his mind.

 

Clint was leaning against a wall, outside the private club , ready to snort the line of coke he had been preparing, far away from the crowd ,when the woman came out to smoke.

 

She had assessed him quietly, giving him a cold look before nodding almost imperceptibly at the cocaine in Clint's palm.

 

“Happy escape ?”

 

“Something like that.” Clint had shrugged, too busy trying to reach a mildly satisfactory high to show interest in her opinion.

 

The woman's gaze didn't waver from Clint's hands, from his fingers trembling around the little packet's opening.

 

“It happens.” Her voice was detached, and Clint wondered at the calm admission. He had a feeling she had had her share of bad moments. Her eyes were still focused on Clint's fingers and a little irritated, he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

 

Unperturbed, her thoughtful gaze flicked back to his face as she said “I heard of a guy once, who could shoot from a distance without looking at his target and never miss it. They called him Hawkeye. I wish I had met him.”

 

Surprised, Clint had looked at her, ready to let a snarky, weary comment come out but her wistful look stopped him. He had the feeling she wanted him to say something. In these dark, almost bottomless eyes, Clint had felt an undefinable connection. But before he could say anything, the woman had broken eye contact and left. A few hours later, panic hit the club and Clint never saw her again. 

 

Until now.

 

Clint didn't care that S.H.I.E.L.D. was monitoring him right now or that he had disobeyed a direct order. The only thing he knew he was going to regret was disappointing Coulson, but he shoved this thought in the back of his mind and focused on the woman.

 

What was the name on the file? He tried to not remember the names in the files, it was easier this way to forget about the targets. But her name was close to Natalia, Nat...Natasha Romanov.

 

A woman who was feared by dozens of countries. A woman known for her exploits in murder and spying. A woman who has spent so much time in labs, she might not have even known anything else or been sure of her real identity. A woman, with a past even worse than Clint's, was blandly looking in his direction, arms crossed over her chest, just waiting. 

She could have disappeared into the crowd any time she chose. Instead, she just stood and watched him. 

 

And at this moment, it struck him. She was in the same state of desperation than Clint had been for years. She wasn't trying to escape, she wasn't trying to defend her life, she had simply given up.

“Natalia. I mean Natasha. Shit, whatever your name is. I don't want to kill you. Just run.”

 

“What are you? An assassin looking for redemption? “ Her laugh was cold, bitter. “I don't need that. I know your organization. Just do your job and pull the trigger.”

 

“Hey, I'm not a hired assassin. I'm not paid to murder innocent people.”

 

Clint lifted his hands up , palms facing her to show he was serious but her icy stare stopped him.

“Look, I know life sucks and all but I'm sure you remember me when you were doing your thief act and I was doing, well you know.” At the word thief, she raised her eyebrow, looking even more glacial and Clint sighed when he heard his last words trail off .He cleared his throat, persisting. 

“What I mean is, I almost gave up. Hawkeye, this guy, he was almost dead. I'm not saying SHIELD is perfect, all their talk is bullshit but they gave me Hawkeye back.”

 

Encouraged when she didn't stop him, he added the thing he never admitted before, forcing himself to look directly in her eyes.

 

“ They gave me a reason to carry on , to not give up....on life .”

 

Clint was almost certain she had read the honesty in his eyes, hear it in the rough whisper of his last words but at this moment, she collapsed in on herself.

 

“What the f-” He had no time to react, the pain in his leg too intense to allow him to run. He was falling while another hit went through his bicep. Clint perceived the cold texture of the sidewalk against his cheek but couldn't make a move, couldn't fight the darkness closing in around him.

 

When Clint woke up, he immediately tried to roll into a defense position but intense pain in his arm and his leg stopped him. Assessing his surroundings, he let out a breath of relief when he recognized the SHIELD logo on the door. He was in medical, a place he was extremely familiar with, though he was a lot less familiar with the expression of the man staring at him, leaning against the door, shoulders tensed with anger.

Clint stared back at Coulson, not used to the uncomfortable silence charged with tension, and the sniper , accustomed to spending hours unmoving, started to writhe under the cold stare of his handler.

 

“Has the mission failed?”

 

“If you are talking about Romanoff, she is still alive. She is being interrogated right now.” 

 

Coulson's jaws were tightened, his lips nothing more than a white line, fury erasing all other emotions on his face, all traces of the man Clint had learned to appreciate replaced by the cold and professionnal handler that all the new recruits were afraid of.

 

Unconsciously Clint moved backwards against the wall, putting as much distance as he could from Coulson.

 

Suddenly realizing his movement, he raised his head defiantly, furious with himself and Coulson.

 

“What was I supposed to do? Kill her in cold blood, when the woman could be a powerful asset, sir?” His lack of intonation on the last word echoed in the room like a veiled insult.

 

“It's not your place to make these decisions, Specialist. You are here to execute orders.”

 

This stung more than Clint thought it could. Coulson must have noted the expression on his face before Clint hid it but didn't soften his voice.

 

“I don't care if you saw yourself in this woman, you shouldn't have switched off your com. We were supposed to be a team, Barton.”

 

“We...were?”

 

“You can't pull a stunt like that and not expect consequences.” His face hardened then went neutral. It was the purest form of rejection Clint ever felt directed at him. And he had experience at rejection. He swallowed his pride and asked about Natasha.

 

“Are you gonna kill her?”

 

Coulson looked at him, hard and serious before answering in a cold voice.

 

“No. She has valuable informations and is talented. Also she seems...concerned about you.” Clint briefly wondered what this meant but before he could question the agent any further, Coulson held up a hand to stop him.

 

“I'm your handler, Barton.” Coulson snapped “You warn me when you plan this kind of reckless rescue or we can't work together.”

 

And with this, Phil strode through the door and left.

 

 

Clint didn't like to remember the weeks following Natasha's capture. After she had been interrogated, they decided to keep her as an agent, and when she finished her training, a lot of her missions were supervised by Coulson. Coulson, who avoided Clint. Coulson, who hadn't spoken directly to Clint for weeks.

 

One morning, exactly six weeks and three days since Clint woke up in the infirmary and Coulson stormed through the door, Clint was firing up at the range, taking out the frustration of too many days going by stuck in the H.Q. and too much paperwork without dropping by Coulson's office, when Natasha casually came to the range, prepping her gun without looking at Clint. 

 

They had become close during these few weeks, surprisingly fast. Maybe it was the fact they each had a hand in the other's will to survive or maybe it was because SHIELD had started to partner them a lot, going on short missions together, learning to have each other's back.

And sometimes you could learn more about a person when you were under fire and stuck in a cave in Bakou for five days than living with them for one year. When Natasha wasn't supervised by Coulson, someone had apparently decided the best to work with her was Clint.

And Clint was learning how to read Natasha. Well, at least when she wanted him to read her. 

And right now, Natasha wasn't happy.

 

The sound of the bullet hitting the target reverberated in the otherwise silent range, the bunch of rookies who were there a few minutes ago fled once they spotted Natasha's glare and the way she held her gun.

 

Clint finally sighed. “Okay. What is going on?”

 

Natasha didn't look at him, her tone clipped when she answered.

 

“You've got a mission with Coulson.”

 

Clint's eyebrows shoot up. “Who requested this?”

 

“Fury. This situation is childish. You both are being entirely immature about it and it needs to stop.”

 

“I wasn't...” Natasha held up a hand to stop him but didn't stop speaking.

 

“I read the reports of your previous missions with him. You're a good team. One of the best. So you're going to get your ass in gear and do what you should have done once you were out of medical.”

 

Clint opened his mouth once more, unsure of what to say while Nat was glaring at him.

 

“No, Clint. No excuse. You swallow your pride and you go in his office and apologize for your stupid behavior.”

 

“Stupid behavior. Excuse-me, I saved your life if I remember correctly.”

 

Natasha tilted her head, a cold smile stretching her lips.“Well, thank you, mister White Knight. I would never have survived without you.”

 

Clint grinned apologetically, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, it was a dick move.” 

 

It was. They both knew Tasha had wanted to die and Clint had helped her to survive. And it was the real deal, she had never let someone help her before and their mutual trust came from here. But she didn't need to be reminded of that.

 

“Clint. His office. Now.”

 

Clint turned without adding anything else. No one dared answer to Natasha when she was using this tone. Clint mentally called it the Siberian tone. Not that he would never admit it to her.

 

 

When Clint arrived in front of Coulson's office, the door was already open. Clint was naturally stealthy and it gave him a few seconds to observe his former handler without being seen. At least that's what he thought, until Coulson said “ Stop spying and come in, Barton.” 

 

Of course, he never raised his head once.

 

Clint entered the office, closing the door behind him and took a look at his surrounding. Nothing had changed, except that before, Clint wouldn't have bothered coming by the door where everyone could see he was getting a mission. He would have come via the ceiling, it was more fun this way anyway.

 

Nothing has changed, except the break in their relationship.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_See, it was all your fault. From the beginning, you always have been the problem._

 

Clint was tossing in the bed, trying to determine if it was his fucked-up mind playing games with him or if Loki had still a handle on him. He tried to push the voice aside, tried to shove it into this empty blue and cold place that he had been forced to create in his mind and tried to focus on this day with Coulson, this day where he had swallowed his pride like Tasha told him to and said a thing he hadn't told someone in a long time.

 

Coulson had finally raised his head from his stack of reports and stared at Clint in silence.

Clint tried to open his mouth, willing to get done with this but Coulson didn't let him speak.

 

“We have to leave in 5 hours, Barton. Take your sniper rifle, maybe your bow if you wish. You'll be my back-up on the mission while the team will be infiltrating and disarming the base.”

 

“The base, sir?”

 

Coulson looked tired, he could see it in the tight lines on his face and the way he rubbed at his eyes then hid the movement by resting his left hand against his temple while straightening his tie with the other.

 

“We are going to infiltrate the headquarters of a drugs ring. Our mission will be to apprehend the leader but no kill shot until I can interrogate him. Sorry, Barton. I spent too much time preparing this mission. I should have explained it to you sooner and better.”

 

“I'm the one being sorry, sir.” Oh God. He hadn't wanted to talk about the elephant in the room but of course he had to blurt an apology and now he was feeling himself blushing. Could he sound more pathetic than that?

 

“I should have apologized to you, Barton. I thought...Ah, I thought I was angry that you didn't trust me as your handler.” In this moment, Coulson looked a strange mix between apologetic and shy, both expressions Clint had never seen on his face before. He realized with a shock that Coulson was feeling guilty and it made Clint feel even more remorseful.

 

“No, sir. It was my fault. I can't be sorry for bringing Tasha in but I'm sorry for the rest. I realized I should have listened to you.” _I trust you_. 

 

_Shit, Clint. Say it, it can't be so hard._

 

But the moment passed and Coulson looked at him with a wan smile, not believing him and simply said “Let's go”.

 

_Miserable bastard,_ Clint thought and he couldn't tell which one of the men he was thinking about.

 

 

Clint was sweating under the sun, waiting with his rifle in hand and trying to not make it obvious that he was ogling his handler. He hadn't had a good look at Coulson in weeks and even if the man was exhausted, he looked good in a kevlar jacket and managed to not end up shiny with sweat.

 

He was offered a good opportunity to examine how Coulson's tight pants were molding to him from the height of a two-story building. 

He had made sure he was not too high to be able to jump quickly if Coulson needed him. The odds of him shooting someone today were low with the team inside. The only downside to his good mood was the existence of Agent Jonhson, ex-CIA fieldie and ass-kisser of Coulson. Well he was trying to get Coulson's attention, but so far it hadn't worked.

 

Clint snapped out of his day-dreaming when he heard shouting on the com's channel reserved for the team inside and the warning that two people had escaped, one of them armed, and were running in direction of the entrance. 

 

Right into Coulson.

 

Clint prepared himself to jump, carefully surveying his surroundings, trying to think logically, to remind himself that Coulson could hold his own, that he was the one teaching the SHIELD class about close combat with random objects, a class that every agent had to take at least once a year. Except right now, Coulson was busy fighting three goons at the same time while an armed guy was running, gun in hand. And holding a small child against his chest as a human shield.

 

“Two people escaping, right!” he snarled into the com unit.“When I catch the fucker giving me this info, I'm gonna use his balls as a target.”

 

He didn't even wait for an answer, focused on the sensation of his fingers adjusting the scope, caressing the metal, and shutting down the voice in his head screaming to protect his handler exposed in the field, especially since it was their first mission together since Natasha had been brought in. 

He waited for Coulson's voice, ready to fire in a few seconds if the order didn't come, his hands steady, his vision clear even if he was squinting in the sun.

 

“Take the shot as soon as you can, Barton” Coulson's voice in his ear was a rasp, the man managing to keep control of the situation as well as putting one of his opponents on his back.

 

Clint took the shot. 

 

The time for the bullet to hit his target stretched into an infinity of seconds where Clint held his breath. His attention snapped back a few seconds after his shot hurt the man, incapacitating him but not killing him. He heard a second shot, saw the little girl tossing her body in terror, trying to escape but the shock tossed her back on her kidnapper. 

 

All it took was another handful of seconds and a horrified look. 

A few seconds where the little girl shouldn't have been in the path of a bullet which should never have been fired. 

But these few seconds were all was needed for her body to flinch and bounce back before her limbs became limp.

 

_The rifle. Focus on the rifle. Break it and put it back into its case. The screams and the blood..._

 

But Coulson was alive. 

 

The second shot. He had heard a second shot. Who was the motherfucker who fired this second shot?

 

And the answer hit him. Who could have been so full of himself to think Clint wasn't good enough to have the job done. Who, apart from an ex-CIA agent ? 

 

_Johnson. Fucker._

 

His vision went red around the edges. He jumped and his breath caught when he landed in a roll on the floor and ran in the direction of the other shooter. Two guards were already flanking the man and took a half-step forward when they saw Clint arrive. 

 

They gave him time to throw his fist into Johnson's face before one of them caught his arms, locking them behind his back while the other put himself between Clint and the ex-CIA agent.

“Sorry Agent Barton. We have to take him now.” 

 

Clint barely registered that the man sounded truly sorry. All he wanted was to imprint his knuckles on Johnson's face, hear the crack of his nose under the impact and maybe, just maybe feel satisfaction at the pain the shock will send into his hand.

 

The guard winced at something in Clint's expression before adding, “Agent Coulson hasn't spoken to him yet.” Clint smiled at this simple, innocuous sentence. It was more of a cruel grimace and at the recoil from the two men in front of him, he had successfully learned from Nat's smiles.

 

“Barton. Come help us with this one.” At the evident relief of the guards, one of the team's members called Clint as one of the dealers was trying to escape.

 

Clint didn't even reach for his gun or his bow hanging on his back, too eager to release his anger on someone, and a drug dealer was next on his punching-ball list right now.

 

It was frustratingly easy to run after the guy and methodically hurt him, careful to not cause real damage but enough to incapacitate him and let him writhe on the ground with pain.

 

Clint knew a lot of wicked tricks to create suffering. Not that he was particularly proud of it but for a long time it had been his only defence to not become the victim. Such was the legacy of his life, from the orphanage to the streets and, finally, the circus.

 

SHIELD had only honed already well-developed skills and given them an honourable purpose.

Finally, when the guy stopped trying to defend himself, breathing with difficulty in the mix of dirt and blood, Clint searched him and retrieved his weapons and his pills, listening to the ambulance's sirens in the background.

 

He had just settled the handcuffs around the man's wrists before crushing the pills under his boot with disgust when he felt a presence behind him. He turned carefully, the adrenaline still rushing through his body, to see Coulson, hands in his pockets, harsh lines written all over his face but a small smile of pride appearing when his eyes met Clint's.

 

Clint didn't get it at first, still trying to get his anger under control. It dawned on him when he followed Coulson's stare and saw the white powder being swept away by the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint didn't say a word on the flight back to SHIELD, didn't make eye contact with anyone except to glare at agent Johnson.The other agent wasn't looking at him though, he was staring at the floor, the bruises on his face already showing hints of purple among the angry red.

 

He couldn't bring himself to look at Coulson, even after Coulson's proud look at the sight of the crushed pills. He saw his fingers twitching when Clint brushed past him and the knowledge that Coulson once again had trusted him to take the shot but Clint hadn't been able to avoid the death of a little kid, was all it took to crush something inside him, something already cracked and fragile after the death of the child and the memories of his past came in a rush to bury him in guilt.

 

But after the plane took off, Coulson took the seat near Clint and calmly put his hand on his shoulder.

 

“None of this was your fault, Clint. You took the shoot. You trusted me. You didn't miss.”

 

Clint looked at him, a part of his mind barely aware that the man next to him had used his name for the first time.

 

In these usually cold and impenetrable blue eyes, Clint could see a hint of kindness mixed with sadness and the burden of duty. And inside them, in place of the usual mask covering Phil Coulson's emotions, he could read trust.

 

“The Intel was bad, no one knew there were going to be kids inside. And I'm gonna have a talk with Johnson about what it means to ignore my best asset.” 

 

Coulson's features morphed again into his professional mask, the one he put before going into the interrogation room and Clint couldn't explain why it warmed this chilly place inside him.

 

The knowledge that Phil Coulson didn't consider him a failure didn't stop him to disappear from SHIELD's headquarters once the plane landed though.

 

 

 

 

Clint woke up to the sound of pounding against his door. He was immediately awake, reaching for the gun he always kept beneath his pillow. Knocks on the door of his ratty flat in New York, in the middle of the night, could only mean two kinds of people. 

 

Enemies or SHIELD. 

 

Clint barely used this flat, preferring to stay inside SHIELD HQ and only coming there when a mission went wrong and he needed time alone, for the sake of everybody.

 

Fury let him go AWOL for days, perfectly knowing that Clint will come back the moment he was needed for a mission. They all knew it was his way to deal, it was preferable to the time they tried to force him to stay inside SHIELD HQ for extended psych visits and he almost took off the head of a rookie agent. 

 

Besides, Fury counted this as vacation days, the bastard.

 

Clint wasn't ready to deal with Natasha, but she knew better than to come calling unless two weeks had passed without Clint giving sign of life. And Fury would have left him a message on the answering machine.

 

He hasn't had any HYDRA agents trying to follow him lately and the place was secured. It could only mean one person outside this door.

 

With a sigh, Clint opened the door to Phil Coulson.

 

 

The first thing Coulson told him when he opened the door was “Barton, the little girl is alive.”

 

Clint didn't understand at first, surprised to see his handler showing at his door with a pizza under one arm and holding a bakery bag with the other hand.

 

At the beaming smile directed at him, comprehension finally hit Clint.

 

“What? How?” 

 

And as Coulson assured him the wound hadn't been fatal and the medics had maintained the kid alive in the SHIELD helicopter in time for the doctors to operate on her, a weight he hadn't realized had held him down for three days was lifted from his shoulders.

 

He took a step aside to let Coulson through, watching him take in the studio, the dishes in the sink, the cot against the wall, and the clothes scattered on the floor.

 

Clint was starting to feel self-conscious though, while Coulson was looking at Clint's life exposed in front of him. Coulson finally turned toward him again, no judgment in his eyes. No pity either. Clint wouldn't have supported pity. But strangely, he could read something he rarely saw in the eyes of anyone looking at him, something close to warmth and affection.

 

"What are you doing here?" Great, after feeling like shit, he was sounding defensive now. “With food I mean. Not that I don't appreciate food. ” 

 

Especially when the smell was from his favorite cookies.

 

"I was worried about you, Barton."

 

"It's not the first time I needed a few days off, you know."

 

"Granted. But I wanted you to know the kid survived."

 

Clint gritted his teeth. It had hurt. Think whatever you want, you never get used to the killing, especially innocent victims who were not supposed to die, especially when during a few seconds, you actually thought you had saved them.

 

“It wasn't your fault, you know.” Coulson's tone was surprisingly gentle. “I know you were beating yourself up over it but your shot was clean, I could interrogate the man afterwards and we had enough information to definitively clean this ring. What Johnson did, on the other hand... It was my fault I guess.”

 

“What? No.” 

 

“I'm supposed to detect and take care of the ones with a hero complex. It doesn't mix well with orders.”

 

Clint tried to hide his smile. He wasn't really surprised that the man wasn't even aware that he had caused the hero complex in the first place.

 

“What is so funny Barton?”

 

“Nothin', sir. It's just, you don't realize that Johnson was trying to prove to you how worthy he was, right?”

 

“Worthy? What do you mean? He shouldn't have tried to act against you .”

 

But Clint shook his head “It has nothing to do with me.” _Or_ _had_ _it?_ He was getting rather protective of his handler, too.

 

“You don't realize that your men, all of the SHIELD agents really, are trying to show you the best of themselves because you are the best, sir. You inspire this kind of loyalty where, if you ask them to jump off a roof, they will trust you to find a rope at the least minute and they will jump.”

 

Coulson flushed and opened his mouth to deny it but Clint didn't let him speak “ You believe in everyone. Hell, you gave me not just one but two chances. And...And when I fucked up the second time...” This time, Clint stared at his hands, not ready to meet Coulson's eyes.

 

“When you brought Natasha in ?”

 

“Yeah. I was so scared afterwards, because I broke this trust you put in me. But I can't regret helping Nat.” He added the last part quickly, still fixing his intertwined fingers, knowing he already said this in Coulson's office before the mission, but he needed to repeat it, to be sure that Coulson understood his motives. To be sure he forgave him.

 

“I don't regret you bringing Agent Romanoff either, Clint. I think I'd have just appreciated an explanation.” A discreet chuckle came with these words and Clint knew. He knew that Coulson would always try to understand him. He offered understanding, support and forgiveness. 

 

Every time.

 

He wasn't aware he had been lost thinking until Coulson's voice broke his train of thought.

 

“What is it, Clint? Talk to me.”

 

Clint finally looked at him, a sheepish smile on his lips.

 

“I'm not used to give it.”

 

At the total look of incomprehension on his handler's face, he added with an embarrassed sigh “Trust, I mean. I've always fought my own battles. Because at the end of the day, that's how you are. Alone.”

 

“And sometimes, you've to accept that people want to be here for you. Several people want to be here for you, Clint. Your team mates on the other missions, Sitwell, Natasha. I want to be here for you too, Clint.”

 

“I...” Dammit. Why was it so hard to say it out loud? Ah, yes. Maybe because he had been so much betrayed in the past.

 

“I trust you.”

 

Coulson simply smiled but Clint could tell he was relieved and maybe a bit delighted. And maybe he tried to hide his emotions by getting up and taking the pizza box, talking to Clint over his shoulder “ Now let's eat this before you force me to microwave it.” Clint laughed, the first laugh he had in months. He could get used to this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Clint was staring at the ceiling, the grey light coming from behind the curtain letting him know the night was giving way to the day. Clint didn't want to think about what was going to happen today. Not when the event taking place in a few hours meant a reality he didn't want to accept.

Natasha was awake beside him. He could hear her breathing changing, the way she was swiftly moving. She wasn't ready either.

Clint decided to ignore this: her presence, the world continuing to advance despite his pain, the way he wanted to break something, to scream at how unfair all of this was, to burn the room, destroy everything in his path, take his bow and run. Or take his gun and try another sort of running.

But he didn't do any of this. Because Nat was here besides him and she would be hurt in the process. There were so many ways to hurt people, and not just physically. He couldn't do this to her.

So Clint turned on his side, and caressed his bow leaning against the mattress, something familiar near him, trying to focus on his scarce memories of happiness.

 

Clint, Natasha and Coulson had formed a good team, one of the best of SHIELD.

Once Clint recognized that some people were not going to fuck him over, he became even better, especially with Nat as a partner. 

They used to debrief together in Coulson's office, helping him with the paperwork from their missions.   
Most of the time, it was more Nat filling forms and discussing politics and Russian authors with Coulson while Clint sprawled on the comfortable leather couch, tending to his superficial wounds, adding his opinion and some witty-Barton comments to make Nat rolled her eyes.   
At other times, he just dozed off, but as time went on, it had become more of an excuse to observe Coulson from behind half-closed lids.

They hadn't had any more improvised pizza nights but then, Clint hadn't felt the need to hide miserably in the hole that was his studio so he stopped renting it and lived full time in his SHIELD quarters. 

And when he wanted to feel part of something with actual social interactions, he simply climbed   
into the air vents, casually observing movements and dropping silently by Coulson's office. He liked observing his handler at work, the concentration making him bite his lower lip and his eyebrows drawn down, creating a crease between them. Clint caught himself many times wanting to smooth them with his thumb, only remembering at the last minute that he was observing the man from a distance. 

Clint marvelled at how composed the man looked, even in private until one day, Coulson stood up to make coffee, and without turning towards the vent, said dryly “Stop playing the stalker Barton and get down. Sitwell brought me donuts and I need more details on your last surveillance's report.”

After that, Clint got used to drop by Coulson's office to take a nap, after coming back from a mission in the middle of the night or spending the last drop of adrenaline on the range. Coulson didn't mind having him there, leaving coffee in the machine even when he wasn't in his office, as well as a neatly folded plaid on the armrest of the couch.

 

After all these years working for SHIELD, Clint was proud of what he had become. Helping people, serving a purpose.

And sometimes at night, after a long mission where Clint had been wounded and had refused to take meds to ease the pain, when he lay exhausted on his mattress, he admitted to himself that Coulson had saved him, giving him a metaphorical kick in the ass, being the detonator behind Clint's new purpose: serving a certain definition of justice with his bow.

His personal life was another story. He never allowed himself to lose control, didn't want anyone to take care of him, which didn't bode well for relationships.   
Clint just didn't let people get close enough. Period.

So for years, he tried to be satisfied with a succession of hooks-up, one-night stands with strangers met in bars and quick, dirty fucks in clubs' bathrooms.  
Clint avoided any kind of attachments.   
Living like this rapidly lost its appeal though, maybe because it reminded him of past sexual encounters when Clint was so high, he didn't even ask for names.   
Or maybe it was because all these women and men were not Phil Coulson. 

He was determined to forget about his attraction to his handler, stashing it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had decided to ignore and continue to be a professional.

Keep telling you that, Barton.

Clint sighed, annoyed with his internal whining, he had spent more than forty-eight hours awake, and right now he was longing for any surface where he could collapse and desperately shutting down the thoughts swirling around in his brain.

They had finished wrapping a mission in Serbia, where none of them got any scratches when Coulson got the call telling them to drop by Ljubljana in Slovenia to extract a scientist. His last researches plans on multi-dimensionals portals were coveted by half of the Europeans countries. The man had wanted to meet them at precise coordinates in the forest rather than in the city, where the local mob had put him under surveillance.  
It'd have made Clint suspicious if the guy hadn't a reputation for being paranoid on top of being irascible. Clint would have been paranoid too with the Mob watching his every moves.

That's all the details Clint got before dozing off on the helicopter. The only relevant thing for him at the moment was that his agency needed to take away the scientist from Slovenia and Clint was the guy with the bow making sure everyone was safe. 

So Clint tried to remind himself that everything was for the good of the mission while he was soaked, pine needles from the tree he was perched in drilling in the space between his jacket and his pants, and on top of that, he really needed to pee. 

Clint was used to stay immobile for hours, it didn't mean he liked that, not when the wind was lashing at his face and he could feel the drops of rain sliding from his hair to his neck and along his back, forcing him to repress shivers. Clint hated being cold, and waiting in a damp forest on a rainy day was definitely among the things he hated.

But Clint stayed still.

And then the shooting started.

Clint should have heard the men, should at least have seen quick movements between the trees but they had an advantage on him, they knew perfectly their surroundings.   
Still it wasn't an excuse and Clint didn't lost a second, he notched the first arrow while activating his com.

“Nat, we've got a situation there. Five, no, six armed men. “

Coulson was fighting two men armed with knifes and Clint couldn't be sure if it was blood he glimpsed on his dark suit.” Doc Koren isn't here. Get him before he arrives on site.”

Suddenly he heard explosions on the other end of the line.

“ Tasha ? you okay?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. I got four men down here and Koren is secure. I'm driving him in into safety.” With a breathless laugh, she added “Can I let you guys handling the situation over there?”

Clint rolled his eyes. His actions with his bow were deeply ingrained, his muscles rippling across his back, the brief burning of the arrow against the skin, the shifting of his arm, then finally, the release.   
One arrow after the other, too fast to be much than a blur and in a couple of minutes, it was over.

“I got everyone. I'm gonna check on Coulson and make sure they didn't bring any other friends. We reinitialize contact in thirty minutes.”

“Understood. Romanoff out.”

Clint jumped from the tree, landing half-crouched, bow in position. Everything was clear but Coulson was slumped against a tree, his right hand pressed against his left arm.  
He ran in his direction, blood thrumming in his ears and knelled besides his handler.

“Natasha has got Koren. Are you feeling steady enough to walk? We need to keep moving.”

Clint was already getting the med kit out of his gear, eyes scanning Coulson's body for other blood marks.  
Coulson smiled at him reassuringly but his features were strained in pain. 

“It's just a gash. I'd need to get this bullet extracted but right now, containing the blood will be enough.” 

“If we can find a place secure enough, I'll extract the bullet. Better to not let it too long in place. You need stitches too but for now, the bandages will do.” 

He needed to apply physiological saline too, trying to contain the infection as best as he could, with rain drenching both of them. He wiped the mud and the dirt from his hands on his thigh and pressed the saline on a clean gauze, careful to not add pressure to the wound, then he made a makeshift tourniquet with bandages, tightening it up carefully. The blood wasn't flooding through the bandages, confirming that no major arteries and veins had been touched. 

Coulson blanched when Clint restrengthened the tourniquet a last time but sat up straighter and Clint caught his arm to help him getting on his feet.

“We'll need to wait until Natasha drop Koren off. She is our only means of transportation.”

Clint sighed. The mission was supposed to be easy. SHIELD helicopter wasn't scheduled for another hour and they needed to get out of this forest first. Even Natasha and her mad driving skills hadn't be able to drive the van to the meeting point before getting to her surveillance station, a kilometer and a half from there.

Coulson was already consulting their encrypted GPS. 

“ We should go east, at one kilometer, we'll be closer from the road .”

Clint bit his lip but said nothing, picking up his arrows and fastening the men who were still breathing and lay unconscious , thanks to his new sedative arrows. 

After wiping off their traces and making sure there was no blood on the ground and nothing that could lead to them, they started walking away.   
Clint stayed close to Coulson, watching for any sign of stumbling or dizziness. With the rain and the slippery ground, it wasn't too hard to hide his expression of concern and hovering around Coulson with his hand ready to catch him if he fell. 

Except the man was ex-military. Of course he didn't fall or let aloud a groan of pain until they arrived in front of a small cave where he sighed with regret for his ruined suit.  
Clint chuckled at that, “I'm sorry sir, but I need to cut the sleeve. I'm going to extract the bullet since we have time until Nat comes back.”

“I should send the bill to SHIELD but then Nick would ask me why I don't wear leather rather than tailored suits.”

Clint whistled at the idea and Coulson added, deadpan. “ Easier to clean off the stains apparently.”

Clint smiled and started to cut the sleeve, careful to peel gently the fabric sticking to the wound. Coulson's face was clammy and he was starting to shiver.   
Staying under the rain for hours had done nothing to help with the loss of blood and Clint patted his jacket to find the emergency painkillers he always kept on him for Natasha and , thankfully hardly ever, Coulson.

“I don't need that, Clint.” The use of his first name was probably a way to make Clint know Coulson appreciated the thought but it didn't stop Clint to produce the pills and force them in his palm.

“You are getting feverish and I'll never hear the end of it if you have to take sick days. All SHIELD paperwork will know insufferable delays.”

The truth was, he was convinced that if he and Coulson died on a mission, Fury would find a way to locate Clint and make him regret to have died without his authorization, especially if he was responsible for the death of one of the best SHIELD agents. 

And if Clint was perfectly honest with himself, Fury or not, he knew he'd never let Coulson die on his watch.

His hands were busy extracting the bullet and years of habit helped him to find it quickly, without so much as a hiss of pain from Coulson. 

“I told you to take the pills, sir. Next are the stitches and you're gonna regret saying no.” 

He was trying to glare at him in true Natasha's fashion when Coulson's laugh ended in a strained grimace. 

“I guess I can never say no to you, Clint.”

Clint flashed him a grin before threading the strand into the needle, ignoring the warmth spreading into his chest at these words, and stopping himself before he tried to read anything into it.

It wasn't a secret that Clint hated medical, so he became pretty good at taking care of minor wounds, this and the requested med training and years in the field where taking proper care of a wound made the differences between saving a life or losing a partner, and Clint's stitches were now a work of art.

Of course Coulson knew that, he already had a few scars on his body sporting Clint's brand. Every one of them the result of a mission where things didn't go as smoothly as they should have been. 

The one on his thigh, it was in Russia, fours years ago. Coulson had almost bled to death and Clint had lied awake for two days after it, turning over and over in his mind every mistake he did.

The scar on Coulson's temple was a reminder of eighteen hours of torture in Ukraine.  
After they escaped, the first thing Clint did while they waited for a boat in Odessa, was stitching Coulson in a hotel room in front of the harbour.   
He had been particularly attentive to dissimulate this one, letting only a near invisible line along Coulson's hairline.

There was another on his shoulder, a memory of Bolivia, a poisoned knife this time. And then some crazy scientists' experiments had let barely discerning burn scars on Coulson's hands. Not that a needle would have done anything to help him but Clint remembered applying cream on his hands on the plane back to New York while Coulson was sitting, jaw tight and steadily ignoring the pain.

They had seen each other at their lowest and Clint realized that he was the only agent, with maybe the exception of Natasha, to have ever seen Coulson so vulnerable, so human.

He took half a step back to admire his work and his eyes met Coulson's, who hadn't stopped watching him, looking drained and wistful.

“ Natasha should contact us soon, sir.” 

He tried to not his concern showing. It was just a flesh wound, they had known worse.   
Still he was on the look-out for signs of fever.

“We are making this a dangerous habit, Barton.” 

The smile was present in Coulson's voice even if he still looked like he was hurting. The meds must have been kicking in, judging by the lazy drawl over the last syllables.

“You, me and a needle, sir? Yeah, it's getting old. If you wanted us to have more private time, you should have just asked. No need to bring the guns in it every time.”

Clint bit his lip, weariness was making him babbling, giving away things closer to the truth that he wished to.

Coulson looked at him with a smile looking strangely fond.

“Sometimes I think we should skip all the blood and the gun shots and have a cup of coffee together.”

“A cup of coffee? You don't mean this insipid juice in the coffee machine, do you?”

“No Clint. I mean somewhere nice, not SHIELD's hallway.”

Clint was getting lost into the shiny blue of his handler's eyes and it took him a few seconds to react.

“Do you mean...like a date?”

“Yes, Clint, that's exactly what I mean.” 

Coulson blushed slightly and quickly added “I'm not trying to coerce you into something because I'm your superior. I meant it outside of our working hours. And, well, if you want it, naturally.”

“If I want it? Of course I want it.” 

Act cool Barton. Don't say anything stupid.

“I mean if I'm not hallucinating right now and you're actually asking me that.” 

Okay, this was stupid.  
Clint blamed his inability to think straight on the lack of sleep and those damn blue eyes. 

“I take it you won't have an objection if I asked permission to kiss you?”

Clint grinned “Sure. Ask away, sir.”

“Barton.”

Clint's grin broadened at Coulson's exasperation but his laugh was cut short when Coulson leaned slightly toward him. 

Okay, Clint was now dead sure they were both suffering from lack of sleep.

Add to this loss of blood and the good drugs for Coulson,and it must be a shared hallucination because, clearly, he couldn't be so lucky that Phil Coulson wanted to kiss him. 

Still he moved closer, tilting his head and enjoyed the sensation of their lips brushing softly, with a gentleness he never thought experimenting worn out and hands covered in blood.

He had a brief thought about asking Coulson if he could call him Phil, anticipating the taste of the word in his mouth, but he pushed it in the back of his mind when he felt Coulson's hand on his neck. 

The moment was perfect until Natasha's voice raising from the com unit interrupting them.

Only something was weird and Clint realized she was speaking Russian. 

Not speaking. 

Singing.

She was softly singing and the hand he had felt on his neck, gently disentangling his hair, wasn't Coulson's.

Natasha was holding him, whispering in a soothing voice and he realized he was shaking, desperately trying to contain sobs and refusing to let the memories go. 

There had been no time for a coffee date, they had been overwhelmed with work, and Clint had to watch over the tesseract. 

Then, well, Loki happened.

Natasha's voice was thick and barely audible when it broke the silence.

" It's time to go, Clint." 

And if her voice choked down on the words and she hugged him like she was trying to gather her strength when they broke away from the mattress to face this day, and all the days after, no one was here to see it. 

Finally, Clint got back reluctantly to reality, urging himself to not cry. Because if he started crying, he'd never be able to stop. 

And he couldn't afford to break down and cry, not now.

Not when they had a burial to attend.


End file.
